


Not Too Distant Future

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Identity Swap, Inspired by Total Recall, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, sort of, spoilers in reviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson died in Afghanistan, shot and bled out. So who's living with Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker St. with John's memories and personality?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Imposter

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Niezbyt Daleka Przyszłość- TŁUMACZENIE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079509) by [Toootie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toootie/pseuds/Toootie)



> So I published this on Fanfiction back I December 2012 and thought perhaps I would try it over here. I have included my original notes and may add some new information. I have also been editing it a bit as I bring it over.  
> I will probably be updating this daily. Probably.
> 
>  
> 
> Ah plot bunnies! You never know where and when they will find you! So we were watching Total Recall (the new one not the old) & smack dab in the middle of it came this idea. Now you have to know that I grew up with science fiction – Fritz Leiber, Kurt Vonnegut, Orson Scott Card, but one of my favourites is Philip K. Dick and if you have seen Total Recall, Minority Report, The Adjustment Bureau or Blade Runner (director’s cut, please) then you should know (if you don’t already) that all of these were based on the stories of Philip K. Dick - & some of them had longer titles than I use – lol! Example Total Recall is We’ll Remember it For You Wholesale and Blade Runner is Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Not really important to the story - just me rambling. Anyway one of the things I always liked about his stories is that they were just around the corner or in the not too distant future. So now I’ll be quiet & stop this rather long author’s note. Enjoy!

“Is he ready?”

 

“Yes, I do believe he is.”

 

“This had better work,” the soft voice said, the promise of the threat evident in the tone.

 

“Oh it will work. Helps that he was willing. Not like the test subject. That was…unfortunate.”

 

“So, minor surgery to make them look the same, false memories implanted deep enough to cover real ones.”

 

“You have to understand. They aren’t just false memories. They are real ones. That’s what the nanites do. They took John Watson’s real memories as he lay dying, his real personality and implanted them in his head. He is for all intents and purposes John Watson. He won’t remember who he used to be unless we send new data to the nanites. And he will act, think and feel exactly like John Watson. He can even be a doctor. It’s flawless.”

 

“We then use the nanites to give further commands, correct?”

 

“Yes. Exactly.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Seems a shame…”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well he is awfully exciting this way. Rather intriguing. I was just wondering what it would be like, what he’d be like, like this, not remembering me. Could be fun,” the voice was a soft purr now.

 

“You know he wouldn’t consider you his first choice, not now. This is why we picked John Watson. He’s perfect, perfect for Sherlock Holmes. He’s his type and Sherlock’s John’s, when he isn’t looking at women. They will be perfect together. And when it’s time, when you’re ready, he can be given new orders.”

 

“I still think it’s a shame we couldn’t have given him directly to Mycroft. It would save time.”

 

“We talked about this. You know Mycroft would be suspicious, if he just showed up, someone he would want. This way, he may find it odd that his brother has finally found a love interest, but he won’t be suspecting his brother’s lover of being an assassin.”

 

A heavy sigh.

 

“You are right. You always are. It would just be easier, but…it would not be more fun. And really what’s the point if we can’t have a little fun.”

 

Music came on suddenly from the pocket of the first speaker, a song from the last century, but one that was particularly meaningful, Seal’s _Crazy_. He reached into his pocket and cranked the volume on his personal player. The old songs were the best.

 

“Let him go. Wake him up or whatever it is you do and set him loose on the Holmes boys. Keep me advised and let me know when it gets interesting, otherwise don’t bother me. I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Oh and Wilson?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Don’t fuck this up. I’d hate to turn you into shoes.”


	2. Test Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research in futuristic technological gadgets – I didn’t want to get too technical because I am not really a tech type person & I didn’t want it too complex – I did want a flavour of tec so to speak. Some things are the same because I didn’t want to get bogged down with details:P *and I'm a bit lazy:P
> 
> A lot of the devices I use are real – some are concept designs & some are actually being used – the problem with tec today is it changes so rapidly – so in a few months some of the things mentioned in here could be out of date – lol! 
> 
> Here are some rules for you – not too many – just to help with who might be speaking - off screen or in someone’s head – I may add more later – as I am not sure of all of the details yet.
> 
> tec – is technology  
> Italics – I use these for thoughts and emphasis  
> Asterix – *if there is a bold asterix in front of a thought then it will be the unseen group of people controlling & watching ‘John’- their notes & observations*  
> Square Brackets – [bold square brackets are aberrant ‘John’ thoughts – shouldn’t be too many yet – I think!]  
> Bold – simple bold will be text messages
> 
> That should be plenty to start with – hope this isn’t too confusing!  
> Yeah – should have said this before – I do not own – inspiration, characters and some plot details belong to ACD, BBC et al, & Philip K. Dick. I have changed a few things:)

* _begin test run sequence 11a – subject approaching acquaintance from med school days- someone who has a connection to secondary target – interesting to see reactions of both parties – look for aberrant thought patterns – high level of success – in pre-testing stages before releasing, subject recognized holo-pics of friend with warm & familiar memories – mostly spent leisure time in pubs and carousing with test friend – Note –client wishes to see data and ‘vids – to quote – ‘drag this out and make it interesting’*_

Mike Stamford sat on the park bench as he usually did. Scanning the news. People watching. Grabbing some elusive sun. He heard an odd clicking noise and glanced up in time to see a familiar face hobble by.

 

_Good Lord! Is that…_

 

He called out, “John? John Watson?”

 

The man in question turned around and blinked at Mike. Confusion flittered across his face for a minute.

 

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” Stamford’s round face lit up with delight. Memories of many a pub night, chatting up pretty young girls, flashed though his head as well as all of the practical jokes and late night study sessions.

 

They chatted for a few minutes, Mike felt decidedly uncomfortable at the changes in his old friend. The wars that were currently raging the planet certainly did terrible things to those involved. John looked older, sadder and less like the friend from the past. Although tanned there was an underlying pallor to the skin that the doctor in Mike didn’t like. The limp indicated he was low on funds and couldn’t afford the treatments necessary to correct muscular damage. His ready smile and charming personality were hidden by the stress of his experiences overseas.

 

Mike offered to buy John a coffee, a commodity that was rather dear these days, what with terrorist activities, wars and other such inconveniences.

 

After talking with John, the desire to help his friend permeated his every thought. The opportunity came when John mentioned he couldn’t afford to stay in London.

Mike, enthused at the thought of being able to help out, also realized that probably the only person in the world who was tolerant and patient enough to put up with Sherlock Holmes was sitting right beside him. He also knew something about both John and Sherlock’s proclivities and acknowledged the wish to play ‘matchmaker’. John was predominantly a ladies man, but had not said no to the occasional male partner and Holmes was just his type, tall, dark and intelligent. Byronic and moody. He smirked a little as he thought about the possibilities of helping out two friends in an unexpected way. Besides, he felt there was more to Holmes than a socially awkward exterior and John was just the man to draw out those hidden qualities.

 

He bustled John off to Bart’s to meet a potential flatmate.

 

oOo

 

Although a self-affirmed technophile, sometimes the old methods were the best, particularly when wishing to see results first hand. That was why Sherlock was bent over a petri dish and experimenting, rather than relying on computer-generated results or tec scans.

 

Computers were not always infallible. He felt he was. In fact he was confident in his own abilities, even if he wasn’t in other aspects of his life.

 

As he bent over to observe the results, Mike Stamford came in, trailed by a short, blonde man with a limp.

 

He overheard the other man say, “A bit different from my day.”

 

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” Mike replied.

 

A brief glance in their direction.

 

“Mike, can I borrow your ‘phone. Mine is not connecting.”

 

“Well what’s wrong with the ’net?”

 

“I prefer to text.”

 

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

 

The other man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a clear plastic blob. A very new and very expensive device that was at odds with the shabby, if neat, appearance of the man in front of him. _Military neat and military bearing. Doctor, obvious._ The contrasts already apparent in this seemingly unassuming individual were rather noteworthy.

 

“Uh, here. Use mine.”

 

Sherlock was intrigued. A complete stranger offers to let him use his own ‘phone, not knowing anything about him. Sherlock was bemused and more than a little interested. A second look showed that the man beside Mike was handsome, with a kind, if somewhat tired, countenance.

 

“Oh,” he said, surprised, fascinated. “Thank you.”

 

He walked over.

 

Mike said, “This is an old friend of mine. John Watson.”

 

John held out the ‘phone and Sherlock took it. The clear gel like substance molded to his hand and immediately a touch screen appeared on the face. Whilst Sherlock quickly typed some words he asked, “Afghanistan or the Colonies?”

 

Mike smiled. _And so it starts_.

 

John tilted his head to one side.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Which was it, Afghanistan or the Colonies?”

 

He looked rather puzzled as he answered, “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…”

 

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Molly Hooper. Sherlock rattled off some things to her, only partially paying attention to the conversation. John still looked rather puzzled. Mike sat back and enjoyed the show.

 

Sherlock considered John, tried not to stare and continued further silent deductions.

 

_Dark circles. Not sleeping. Recently invalided home. Not adjusting to transition and possible PTSD. Could be diverting. I wonder…_

“How do you feel about the violin?”

 

_That got his attention._

 

After some additional comments, an absolutely fantastic reveal of John and things about him Sherlock couldn’t have possible known, Sherlock left in a flurry with a rather cryptic remark about leaving his riding crop in the mortuary and the address where they were to meet the next day.

 

Mike looked at John’s face with delight and noted the confusion there. He wasn’t sure if John was amused, alarmed or aroused. Possibly all three.

 

Either way it was sure to be an interesting couple of days.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street, full of, for him, good spirits and rather high hopes. From what he observed about Dr. John Watson, Mike couldn’t have found a better potential flatmate. He did, unfortunately, have several rather irritating thoughts that seemed to want to ruin his enjoyment of the situation.

 

Dr. Watson wouldn’t be able to tolerate him was the foremost one. Sherlock was not an easy person to live with and he wasn’t planning on changing so that was probably the biggest hindrance.

 

The other thought was slightly more worrisome.

 

Sherlock liked men. And Mike had found the one man who was his exact type.

 

But in the interest of the Work, Sherlock had sworn off sex. Although certainly enjoyable, he found it distracting. He had upon occasion sought out other partners, more for recreation and the desire to relieve bodily needs, but it had been awhile. Having someone who appeared to be absolutely perfect at first blush was going to be a challenge. He also wasn’t a hundred percent sure whether Dr. Watson was interested in men. There could have been a slight dilation of the pupils and increased heart rate towards the end of this first meeting, but it could have simply been other emotions and as he was in a hurry he hadn’t taken the time to look more closely. It might have been a trick of the light as well.

 

He would have to remain on guard until he gathered more facts. Either way Dr. Watson was already proving to be an enthralling puzzle.

 

oOo

 

John left Mike and went back to the dismal bedsit he’d been staying in since his release from the hospital.

 

He sat on the bed and thought.

 

He pulled out the ‘phone Harry had given him and glanced at the sent text.

 

**If brother has green ladder arrest brother.**

**SH**

He looked at the phone and spoke to it.

 

“Search Sherlock Holmes.”

 

A bluish light lit up the drabby room as a small holographic screen appeared. The ‘net search provide a ‘site entitled _The Science of Deduction._ John settled back against the pillow and read.

 

Much later, as he was falling asleep, he found his thoughts drifting to the man he met today.

 

_Well, he certainly is different. And it’s better than being stuck here. May as well go take a look at this flat tomorrow, even though I won’t be able to afford it._

 

He fell asleep only to be roused by the same nightmare, which had been plaguing him since he was shot. The one where he was back in Afghanistan and was shot, but in the dream he died. As usual he sat bolt upright, heart pounding, last images of darkness creeping over his consciousness and a familiar face looking down at him. It was the face that made him wake up screaming, but he could never remember who it was once he was awake.

 

He lay back down feeling his heartbeat begin to slow and tried very hard not to sob into his pillow.

 

oOo

 

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk and watched the holovid of the meeting between his brother and a certain Dr. John Watson.

 

He watched and listened, a slight sense of wonder to see his brother not scaring off the first new person to meet him for the last six months.

 

_Seems like this Dr. Watson is made of sterner material than the last potential flatmate._

 

He reached forward and pressed a button.

 

A pretty brunette entered.

 

_What was she calling herself these days? Ah, yes._

 

“Anthea, find out everything you can about a Doctor John Watson, formally of Her Majesty’s army.”

 

“Everything, sir?”

 

“Yes. I want to know who he is, where he’s from and what he ate for breakfast this morning. Everything.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

She left quietly closing the door behind her.

 

_Interesting. A friend for Sherlock. There’s a scary thought._

 

And Mycroft leaned back with his hands steepled together, contemplating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musings for this chapter – Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour


	3. Playing Double Dutch With a Hand Grenade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I don’t own, but I did borrow some words to play with!

**_*_ ** _sequence 11b - Christ! I cannot fucking believe it! He killed Hope! Now what the fuck do we do? No, no, no call him now! Shit. This is royally fucked up. How did you lose control? What do you mean you sent the command to abort? But he didn’t, he shot Hope & now…He what? Oh god. Fine. Send him the ‘vid. Tell him to start at…yes, when he follows Holmes. Run? Are you fucking kidding me? Where the hell do you think we can go that he won’t find us? Just get this to him! *****_

****

John felt strange stirrings of panic in his chest as he realized Sherlock had left in the cab. He watched on the holo-connection, watched him leave. _With a human driver for the love of_ …couldn’t be too many of those left. He picked up his own ‘phone and connected it to the computer on Sherlock’s desk. It transferred the signal and he disconnected, grabbed his jacket and ran out the door. As he hailed an autocab, he voice dialed that Detective Inspector, Lestrade.

 

John felt the rush as he followed the route the other cab was going, followed Jennifer Wilson’s ‘phone, followed Sherlock, knowing instinctively he was in danger. He was completely conscious of the fact that the detective was prepared to do whatever it took to catch a killer, even place himself and others at risk. He didn’t know how he knew this so intuitively about Sherlock but he did. The complete recklessness of earlier when they chased the cab had given some indication of his mindset. It didn’t matter. He felt the influence of Sherlock on him, felt the need to be there and help him, save him, from himself or the madness of a serial killer. It was deeper than anything he’d ever felt before. There was a similar headlong, ‘don’t think, just do’ when he was under fire and trying to retrieve wounded personnel. It was the rush and alarm that came with trying to save a life whilst not getting killed.

 

He shouted out the directions to the autocab, still on hold with NSY. He had told them it was an emergency and that he needed to speak with Lestrade. The cab Sherlock was in finally stopped moving. John looked at the location. It stopped at the same time he was connected to Lestrade.

“Yes it’s John Watson. Sherlock’s in trouble…Yes I know that… NO! Listen! He’s at The Roland Kerr Further Education College with the murderer. Yes, well he’s an idiot.”

 

John put his phone away and hopped out of the cab. The cab already had his personal identification; he’d be charged for the ride later.

 

He glanced up. _Fuck me, two buildings. Christ, which one?_

He moved left. The doors weren’t locked, odd that. The building was dark with just occasional after work lighting here and there. John ran, checking room after room, flashing past doors, all the while his mind was screaming, _Where, where, where_. _He’s not here!_

He pushed through a door.

 

 _God dammit_!

 

He was in the other building. John could see Sherlock, back toward him, long and lean, through the windows. In front of him stood another man, shorter, older, cap on his head. Seemingly innocuous but even from here John could perceive his weasely expression. Fear rose with the mounting panic. Sherlock’s name built in his chest and he hurled it, uselessly, into the night. The sound of it bounced back off of the window, completely ineffective. They didn’t even notice. It’s as if there was nothing but the two of them, trapped in their own world of lunacy. John’s presence might as well be insignificant.

 

John watched as Sherlock held something up to the light. He watched and noticed as the cabbie also held something. He pulled his gun out and aimed in one swift movement.

 

John blinked rapidly.

 

* _don’t shoot *****_

 

[ _shoot_ ].

 

The gun fired, the bullet travelled, a seemingly impossible shot, hitting the cabbie in the right shoulder [ _run! don’t be seen_ ]. As he ran, he wiped at some blood that had suddenly began to trickle out of his nose.

 

He made his way down, back onto the street. He hid, in the shadows, until the police showed up. He mingled in the gathering crowd, unobtrusive, completely unremarkable. The bleeding had stopped and he hoped there weren’t any traces left on his face. He frowned momentarily at his stained fingers, but then dismissed it from his mind as he watched the action on the street.

 

As he stood at parade rest, he saw Sherlock led out of the other building. Even from this distance he could hear him voice his displeasure and protest being led to the waiting ambulance and John watched as an orange shock blanket was draped around his shoulders. Watched as he tried to remove it more than once, only to have it replaced once again.

 

He saw the Detective Inspector walk over to Sherlock and the two begin to converse. Saw the moment when Sherlock glanced his way, paused, a dawning understanding and a look of wonder filled his face and he made the connection.

 

_He knows. He knows it’s you._

Sherlock stood and started to walk away from Lestrade. Lestrade stopped him momentarily and the detective shrugged him off. He made his way to where John was standing, where he was projecting the image of harmless. Sherlock tossed the blanket into the open window of a police car and stood facing John.

 

John cleared his throat, “Sergeant Donovan has just been explaining everything. Two pills? It’s a dreadful business, isn’t it? Dreadful.”

 

_I am harmless. You do not see what you think you see._

 

Sherlock locked eyes with John. _But I do._ _I know what you did._

“Good shot.”

 

“Yes,” said John. “Yes, it must have been. Through that window.” He glanced around still trying to pretend he misunderstood Sherlock, both knowing what the other really thought.

 

“Well, you’d know.” Calm acceptance was in Sherlock’s eyes and something more. Fascination. Interest. Enthrallment.

 

“You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

 

John cleared his throat again. He looked around.

 

Sherlock stared intently at John, scanned his face, concern evident in his gaze and his question. “Are you alright?”

 

Something hit John, right in the chest. His heart skipped a beat. This almost stranger whose life he had just saved, this man who didn’t appear to care for anything or anyone who wasn’t dead or a criminal, was concerned. About him. He felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Yes, of course I’m alright.”

 

“Your nose. It’s been bleeding.” And Sherlock reached up and gently, almost reverently, wiped the last traces of blood off of the corner of John’s nose. John’s heart stammered once more, this time because of the contact, but he schooled his expression.

 

“You sure you’re okay? You have just killed a man.”

 

“Yes, I…” and John paused. He was going to say something serious, something about having killed others, seen friends die and having seen his fair share of death, but he didn’t. He fell back into the convenience and comfort of humour, something he used as a shield. Sherlock’s concern was a bit overwhelming and it was too soon to bring up the ghosts of the past. Neither of them would be comfortable at this stage to reveal so much. Likely Sherlock knew about it anyway.

 

He smiled, a warm smile full of humour and then appeared serious once again. They both walked away discussing the appalling driving skills of the cabbie, giggling. John admonished Sherlock, all the while laughing and smiling. _This could be fun, the two of us. It could be more._

 

John felt his breath quicken, his face felt warm. He reined in his hopes.

 

_He isn’t interested in you that way. Just bury it and forget about it._

John smiled at Sherlock. As a friend. Really it was all he was entitled to.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was laughing. He had never laughed with anyone like this before. He felt unfamiliar warmth spread in his chest. _Is this what it’s like to have a friend?_

 

He felt the carefully placed walls he’d built up begin to crumble. The idea of staying on guard from feelings caused by John swiftly disappeared. He could be more than just a friend, except _he isn’t interested in you that way._

_But he could be._

_If I let him in, he could be._

oOo

 

Wilson waited with a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the ’phone in the palm of his hands, waiting for it to ring, dreading the moment it did and judgement was pronounced.

 

He drummed his fingers nervously on the desk. Hughes watched, sweat pouring down his back. Wilson had said it was no use running but if the ‘phone rang and it was bad news, he’d try anyway. You couldn’t just role over. You had to go out fighting. Even against a madman.

 

Wilson jumped, almost dropping the ‘phone when it finally rang.

 

He swallowed.

 

“Hello? Yes sir, I am sor…No sir? Oh. Really? No, I believe you. Thank you sir. Yes we will do our best. Of course. I meant we would do what you said. No, I don’t mean to grovel. Oh. Then yes I do. Thank you sir.”

 

He powered off the ‘phone, still staring at it like it might bite him.

 

Hughes, waiting for the death sentence, snapped, “well?”

 

Wilson glanced up, his face pale, but a glimmer of hope had appeared in his eyes.

 

“He said he loved it. Wants more of the same.”

 

He glanced back at the ‘phone, wonder slowly replacing some of the fear, but not all of it. You had to hang on to some of it. If you got complacent…you’d die.

 

“He said he likes the wild card element of what his Watson did. Likes that he shot Hope. Hope was just a tool. Used to bring Holmes along. Call him out to play. Watson saved him money and proved to be, in his words, ‘most entertaining’.” He took a deep breath, “He also said if we had let Hope kill Holmes we’d be dead as well.”

 

He breathed out a shaky breath. “We are not going to know how many levels, how many games he’s running.”

 

Hughes gulped, relief swept through him. “Probably just as fucking well, don’t you think?”

 

Wilson nodded in agreement, just to quiet the other man. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing everything that was going on. Didn’t like the loss of control

 

_Guess I should have thought of that sooner. Not that I ever had a choice._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musing for this chapter – Long Haul by No and Youth Without Youth by Metric (this song also provided the chapter title)


	4. I'll Sleep When I Am Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t own, but I can dream:)

* _sequence12a –the subject seems to be caught up in some sort of cycle of nightmares. He’s been experiencing them ever since the procedure and we haven’t been able to completely reconfigure that part of the subject’s brain – from what we can guess the dreams are centred on the real Watson’s death. Possible due to unresolved conflict and now that Watson’s memories have been overridden the subject’s, the two disparate personalities are fighting for lack of a better term. They could possible be incompatible. It is possible it could lead to some sort of mental collapse in the subject. Further observation will need to be completed before a final analysis can be determined._

_Personal notes: I have grave concerns about prolonging this particular experiment. We have simply not had enough time or data to plan for all the variables. When concerns were brought up during the last meeting with the client, the client giggled, reiterated his ideology and made it absolutely clear we understood that even with the main objective still in effect, he was having a good time watching all concerned. I quote ‘This is the most amusement I have had in a long time. All the little puppets dancing to my tune.’*_

 

John sat up in bed, heart pounding, sweat drenched, as the last wisps from the dream still clung to his shattered mind. He wiped an unsteady hand across his forehead and tried to calm his thoughts. He collapsed back on the bed. He attempted some deep breathing to bring his heart rate down.

 

Same dream he always had. Same nightmare.

 

_Lying on the ground, copious amounts of blood leaking from his shoulder, knowing this was it. A shadow crosses his face, blocks out the sun, giving a false sense of relief and leans over him._

 

It was usually at this point that his pulse increased. Not from getting shot. That seemed old hat, getting shot. It’s when the figure’s face comes into view and he sees that it’s himself, his face. That’s when it spikes. It must be some sort of stupid metaphor or something ridiculous. Ella, no doubt, would have a field day with this dream. He’d never told her about this one. He didn’t know why. Maybe it seemed too private, too real. Maybe he was afraid of finding out what it really meant.

 

He glanced over at the clock beside the bed. Just after 5. Better than most nights.

 

He didn’t really feel like wrestling with the demons of the sleep deprived anymore, so he threw back the covers and slipped a robe over the ratty t-shirt and non-descript boxers he slept in. He quietly made his way down the stairs, having lived here long enough he could navigate fairly well in the dark, as long as Sherlock hadn’t left anything dangerous or illegal lying on the floor. He also didn’t want to make too much noise in case he woke Sherlock. It was unlikely he was asleep, but he rarely got enough and he was such a light sleeper.

 

He entered the sitting room; a crepuscular light crept in from the open curtains, enough light to make out the shape on the couch, but not enough to tell if he was sleeping or not. He began his trek toward the kitchen.

 

The shape shifted slightly, probably making noise so that John wouldn’t be startled by the words spoken aloud.

 

“Nightmare,” came a voice from the couch, not a question, a statement of fact.

 

John merely grunted his reply, not up to communicating and began puttering around in the kitchen making tea. He avoided the auto-dispense that was built into the fridge, capable of making both hot and cold drinks. He didn’t mind for the cold drinks and even coffee, when they could afford it, was all right, but tea wasn’t tea unless it was made by a kettle of boiling water, poured over dried leaves and left to brew properly. The swill that came from the auto-dispense might be good enough for the Colonists’ but not for him. He pulled the box down and gave it a shake and opened it. There weren’t many bags left. He’d have to go round to the shops today. He sighed. Tea was almost as expensive as coffee but there was no way he’d start the day without a decent cup.

 

After making it he came back in, placed one mug on the coffee table beside Sherlock and sat down in his chair, resting his mug on the arm as he watched the early morning light out the windows.

 

Sherlock sat up a bit, leaned back on his elbows and simply stared at his flatmate. He knew there was a societal expectation to inquire if John was all right, if there was anything he could do for him, just as he had with his limp. He understood John wasn’t all right and probably wouldn’t ever be, completely. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t interested in the nightmare. From what he had observed and from what he had deduced, it was a similar pattern of dreaming and most likely the same nightmare or variations of the same. He was more than curious as to the content and he rather hoped that John might tell him. The curiosity he felt stemmed not so much from wanting to help John, but because it would add to his growing database of information. John was so intriguing and so fresh compared to so many others that he would never be satisfied with just surface information. He wanted to understand him to his very marrow. He wanted to know everything about him. If John were a corpse he wouldn’t be satisfied with a cursory examination. He would want to dissect him, be the one to hold the scalpel and weigh his organs. He would never tell John specifically this particular bit of news. He knew John would consider it to be Not Good.

 

Sherlock swung his legs around until his feet were on the ground and he reached for the mug, all the while staring at John. John turned his head back to Sherlock and quirked a small smile in the detective’s direction.

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock shrugged gracefully, as he sipped his tea.

 

John sighed. He knew what Sherlock wanted. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to tell him, but really if he was going to tell anyone it would be the man sitting across from him.

 

“I have the same nightmare most nights. It’s getting a little redundant.” He turned back to the window.

 

“There was something different tonight. About this one.”

 

John looked back, surprise evident on his face. “How on earth could you possibly know that?”

 

Sherlock simply smiled. “You slept longer. You slept a good 5 minutes longer than you usually do once the nightmare starts, so, ergo, you most likely had a new or different experience with this one. I guessed and your surprise at my guess told me I was right. Also you didn’t deny it so something changed in the dream.”

 

“I thought you said you never guess?”

 

“I have also said that I lie to get what I want,” Another graceful shrug.

 

_Did everything the man do come wrapped in a package of elegance?_

 

John grimaced, but then began to chuckle. Sherlock gave him an inquiring look.

 

“Oh nothing. I might as well tell you, is all. You’ll never be satisfied until I do.” He looked down at the mug of cooling tea. He shuddered slightly and then began to speak, to the tea.

 

“I dream I get shot, which isn’t unusual, dreaming of the war, dreaming of the circumstances surrounding an injury. I dream I am lying on the sand and there’s blood everywhere, too much blood.” He paused as he collected his thoughts. “A shadow crosses my face and I look up. At first I can’t make out who it is. I think it must be Bill, Bill Murray, but the figure’s too short, my height maybe and Bill’s tall. This person bends down and I look again, only now everything is getting hazy from blood loss and the pain, but I can see his face clearly and it’s me. That’s when I usually wake up.” He took a sip and risked a half glance at Sherlock. Sherlock was listening with his usual single mindedness when applied to a mystery and John knew he wanted to ask why seeing himself as his own rescuer would be so distressing but Sherlock waited him out.

 

John took another sip, finding comfort in the warmth sliding down his throat. “This time I got a better look. And the person does look like me, but there are some minor differences. Shape of the nose, some scars on the face I don’t have, things like that.” He waved his hand at his cheek. He paused again because this part was important and difficult to voice. “But it’s the eyes that are different. Not the colour or shape, but the cruelty. No compassion.” He cleared his throat. “I woke up this time because of what I saw in his eyes.” He frowned and looked at Sherlock again. There was something on his face for a moment. A realization, a recognition but it was gone before John could really grasp what it meant.

 

Sherlock leaned closer and looked carefully at John. He wanted to ask him something, something personal. Before he could frame the question John beat him to it.

 

“You want to see it, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock did not appear embarrassed or abashed at all for having broken privacy taboo.

 

“Yes.”

 

He answered, truthfully. There was no reason pretending.

 

John made up his mind, quickly. He had learned you didn’t think around Sherlock. You went with impulse. He no longer questioned the why or the wherefore of what he did, he just moved with it. He believed his trust in the detective was far larger than it had ever been with anyone else.

 

John slipped out of his robe and yanked his t-shirt off. While they had been talking the light in the room had increased, but Sherlock reached over without looking and turned on a lamp. He rose swiftly and made his way over to where John was sitting and considered his scar. He had wanted to look, ever since he knew John had one, but he hadn’t wanted to ask. He wouldn’t have cared one way or another with anyone else, about asking, but this was John.

 

He bent down and John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his shoulder as the detective eyed it. He willed himself not to shiver, this time not in dread, but anticipation. Sherlock came back around to the front. He raised his hand to touch but looked at John for permission first. John and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment. There was no judgement in Sherlock’s eyes, only curiosity and something else that John didn’t recognize. He nodded sharply and turned to stare at the wall. Sherlock lowered his hand. John could feel it there before Sherlock placed it on the shoulder, as if the energy from his hand extended out from it, pulsed from it. And then when he did finally touch, feather light, his hand was warm and soft and surprisingly gentle. There was curiosity there, but respect as well. He skimmed over the exit wound on the back and back to the entry wound on the front. John kept a tight reign on his thoughts, hoping Sherlock was too engrossed in his examination to notice John’s desire to lean into the touch. It had been a long while since anyone had touched him.

 

He risked a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at John’s face not the wound. “You were shot in the front. The sniper would have seen your face.”

 

John frowned, not really thinking about it before. “True. Why? Does it matter?”

 

Sherlock just continued to stare at John, directly into his eyes as if searching for something. The look in his eyes changed, became more hooded as he regarded John’s scrutiny.

 

“Why did the surgeons not use nanite technology to repair the shoulder? You would have better mobility and no scarring. It looks like conventional surgery.”

 

John sighed. “A few reasons. One, we were out in the middle of nowhere and the army doesn’t let field medics cart nanites around for just battlefield medicine. They don’t want the tec to fall into the rebel’s hands. It’s different enough from their own, they could use it, adapt it. Another reason is, I guess, because they didn’t have time to wait. I was bleeding badly and they wanted to save my life. The initial surgery would have been enough to prevent blood loss. They could have added nanites when I got back to the base, but there was another reason. It was a new kind of tec, the bullet they used. Resistant to nanites. Even if it had been ideal conditions it still wouldn’t have worked. This new bullet is wrecking havoc with our ability to save soldiers on the front lines or back at the base. It causes a lot of damage and it’s tricky to repair.”

 

Sherlock looked intrigued, “That isn’t common knowledge.”

 

John looked just as intrigued, “Yes. I know, but I was a senior medical officer, so I know that. How do you…? Oh, of course.” John grinned.

 

They both said at the same time, “Mycroft.” Sherlock chuckled, an unusual response to saying his brother’s name.

 

They continued to look at each other, longer than was strictly necessary. After a few minutes John pulled his shirt back on, breaking the unspoken tension that had sprung up between them. He cleared his throat

 

“Well, I had better get some breakfast and then go to the shops. There’s not much left to eat around here.” He stood up. Sherlock was still awfully close, right in John’s space and he continued to evaluate him, weighing something, debating something, intense and concentrated, edible, tangible. They stood there for another few minutes, as if there was just the two of them, in their own space, in their own universe, feeling as if there was nothing that mattered but what was not said, almost discernable words hanging in the air.

 

John stepped back and around, turned to the kitchen and then left by the other door to go up to his room to shower and dress. His thoughts where not of the nightmare from the night before but the wonder of what the hell had just happened with Sherlock just staring at him, consuming him. There had been flare-ups of attraction off and on since the night he had shot Jefferson Hope, but it had never led to anything. John had assumed Sherlock was, deep down, not interested. But that had been intense.

 

Probably just deducing him again, but it hadn’t felt like that.

 

It had felt more intimate.

 

It felt almost like a missed opportunity.

 

oOo

 

Mycroft’s ‘phone chimed with the notification of a sent message. The only person he knew who still used text rather than ’vid was Sherlock. He sighed and mentally rolled his eyes wondering what on earth his brother wanted at this time of the morning. Not that it mattered. Mycroft had been awake for hours.

 

He opened the text.

 

His face stilled and his eyebrow rose.

 

“Indeed,” he whispered to no one. He would have to look into that.

 

oOo

 

After a strange morning spent talking with Sherlock about his dreams and whatever it was that had happened between the two of them, he arrived at the shops to argue with the data scanner about his lack of funds and drew a sizable crowd in the process. Frustrated, he return once more with Sherlock’s ID and then came home to see Sherlock hadn’t done a thing except scratch the table. The realization that he was being inundated with notifications of overdue payments on his ‘phone at about the same time was near enough to drive him spare. The last thing he wanted was to go to the bank with Sherlock on another case. What he really wanted was a second cuppa and possibly a nap.

 

At least it was never dull when he went anywhere with Sherlock and this trip was no exception.

 

He did take an intense and immediate dislike to Sebastian Wilkes. Words like, ‘insufferable bastard’, ‘smug git’ and the perennial favourite of just plain ‘arsehole’ circled in his head. He was so busy thinking this he automatically responded with colleague rather than agree with Sherlock’s new moniker of friend and missed the brief flicker of hurt which flashed across Sherlock’s eyes and was immediately deeply buried.

 

After discussing the reasons for being invited to Shad Sanderson and watching Sherlock bob and weave around the floor as he deduced why yellow paint had been splashed so liberally Sir William Shad’s office, the two of them left to track down Eddie Van Coon.

 

“Two trips around the world this month. You didn’t ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him.”

 

Sherlock grinned. There were different emotions surging through John’s voice, one of admiration and another of annoyance. Sherlock heard something else as well but couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps an emotion to which he didn’t respond? No. He did understand. John was angry with Seb. It was protection, but with underlying tones of possession. John didn’t like what Seb had said about his uni days. Interesting. It rather made up for the colleague remark.

 

oOo

 

The end of another long day.

 

Tomorrow might be better.

 

He really did have to get a job. In spite of the advance from Sebastian Wilkes, which would cover the rent, they would need money for food and luxury items like tea and coffee. Besides, John looked at the advance as Sherlock’s money.

 

He crawled into bed and pulled the covers over, hoping he wouldn’t dream tonight.

 

Little microscopic creatures in his brain were able to finally pinpoint the right location and change information that was stuck in his head concerning the face of the shooter. With that piece of evidence gone, John simply dreamt of getting shot.

 

Still a nightmare. Horrible but at least familiar.

 

And then something new.

 

He dreamt he was a different person, that he wasn’t John Watson, but somebody else, somebody malevolent and dark.

 

Somebody truly amoral.

 

And this time he woke up screaming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour 
> 
> Musical musings – When You Come and Private Universe by Crowded House and Sleeping Sickness (again) by City and Colour
> 
> What I find interesting, personally, in re-editing this & posting it on AO3 is I immediately see where the idea for Private Universe came from.


	5. We Are the Kings of Imagining Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the fact that this chapter isn’t as long as I had originally intended but Sherlock took over and I needed to end where I did. 
> 
> As usual I do not own, but wish I did.
> 
> There are no observations from the scary watchers in this chapter because it is from Sherlock’s POV.

“John!” Sherlock raced into the darkened bedroom without the preamble of a knock, instinct overrode everything else. As much as he wanted to be uninterrupted in his pursuit of a killer who could scale walls and left cryptic messages, even he couldn’t ignore the blood-curdling scream that came from John’s bedroom.

 

He entered the darkened room, not wanting to turn on the light in case it startled John. Crossing the room without any impediment, Sherlock was over at his side before he was even aware.

 

Shaking uncontrollably and trying to gulp down air in an attempt to calm himself, John ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, making it stick up.

 

Since he was already awake, Sherlock said ‘half-light’. The overhead light snapped on, the glare reduced. John sat up in bed, shaking and distressed.

 

Opting to move closer to the bed, Sherlock stood there not certain what he should do next.

 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” John panted, trying to convince himself or Sherlock, the detective wasn’t sure.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I…I…I’m not me. I mean, I’m me but I’m not,” there was a slight edge of hysteria to John’s voice.

 

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock felt surprisingly patient with John’s incoherence, but he thought it might be more calming to just continue to ask him questions about the dream. If he could get him talking about it, then perhaps John could return to sleep.

 

John’s voice was becoming louder and the hysterical edge sharper.

 

“In Afghanistan. I died. And I’m not me!”

 

“John…” Sherlock was not sure what to say to this.

 

“You don’t understanding Sherlock! I died in the desert in Afghanistan. I was shot and I DIED!” he yelled.

 

Sherlock moved closer to John and sat on the edge of the bed.

 

“John, you did not die. You were shot but you did not die. You are here in your room and you’ve obviously had a…”

 

“Do _Not_ say I have obviously had a nightmare! Something happened to me out there. I was shot and there was too much blood. I died and I am not me.” A sound like a sob pushed out him. He raised his hands to his face and scrubbed at his mouth. He noticed something wet came away and he hoped to hell it wasn’t tears. He looked at his hand.

 

“Your nose is bleeding,” Sherlock said solemnly and he reached over and pulled out a few tissues from the box beside the bed. Except for a slight hitch in his breath, John didn’t utter a sound as he took them and held them under his nose, leaned forward and pinched the bridge.

 

They sat in silence as John calmed himself.

 

When it appeared that John wasn’t going to bite his head off, Sherlock said,

 

“This happened before. After you shot Hope.”

 

John glanced at the other man,

 

“Lots of people get nosebleeds,” he muttered, not really wanting to have this conversation any more, embarrassed by his outburst. The images from the dream were beginning to fade and the unreality it had left behind was not as all pervading as when he had first awakened.

 

Whilst John attempted to control the bleeding, Sherlock glanced around the room. He had not really been in it before and it struck him as to how John-like it was. Everything neat and tidy. There were no clothes thrown haphazardly upon the floor, no drawers half-opened with their contents hanging out, looking like they might be trying to escape.

 

Sherlock turned back to John and said the first thing he could think of to comfort him.

 

“Tea?”

 

He looked at the detective and then burst into a stream of nervous giggling. He stopped abruptly and then nodded, sharply.

 

“Yes please.” He took the tissue away from his nose. The bleeding had more or less stopped. He tossed the bloody tissue into the recycler and began to throw the covers back to climb out of bed. A hand stopped him.

 

“Stay here, John. I’ll bring it up.” Sherlock looked at him with a half grin, but the concern was still evident in his eyes.

 

John halfheartedly thought about protesting but he was beginning to experience the crash of adrenalin.

 

He nodded again and flopped back against the pillow as Sherlock left.

 

Sherlock trotted down the stairs and into the kitchen. Filling the kettle with water, he pulled down two mugs and got out the tea. Whilst waiting for the water to boil, he pulled out his ‘phone and texted Mycroft.

 

**Different dream tonight. Says he died in Afghanistan. SH**

The kettle whistled.

 

**He kept saying ‘I am not me’. SH**

The detective poured the boiling water into the mugs as he waited for Mycroft to text back. His brother avoided texting, but he must have realized that a ‘vid had the chance of being overheard. Sherlock preferred texting because he didn’t have to actually talk to anyone face-to-face, particular his brother, if he didn’t want to.

 

**I think it is time. But be careful. MH**

He narrowed his eyes. He huffed in annoyance. Of course he’d be careful. He reached into the back of the highest cupboard until his hand wrapped around what he was searching for, generic and available without prescription, just in case. He finished pulling the tea together and then added it to John’s.

 

Carefully carrying the two mugs, he climbed the stairs and paused. John was sitting up, looking toward the doorway. He blushed when Sherlock entered the room.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s just sometimes,” and he ran his hand through his hair again, which did nothing to tame it. “Sometimes these dreams, they seem so real, when I wake up it’s like I bring it back with me.”

 

“Quite understandable. John, you were severely traumatized when you where in Afghanistan. You were shot. Of course you are going to have flashbacks and nightmares.”

 

“When did you get to be so considerate and knowledgeable about all of this?” John said leaning back against the pillows. He was beginning to relax, the warmth of the tea working its magic.

 

“When you moved in.”

 

John looked at him quizzically.

 

Sherlock sighed. “When you moved in, I researched the effects of trauma and PTSD in case you needed assistance.” He waved a hand in the air trying to explain the simplicity of his actions. “It seemed expedient to know in case I needed to aid you in any way.”

 

John blinked. He looked stunned. Stunned that someone he barely knew would go to such lengths to bother to research ways he could help.

 

He stared at the other man, until Sherlock responded with “What?” Worry coloured his tone as he wondered if he had done something Not Good.

 

John grinned, lightening fast, anxiety and tension in his navy eyes replaced with warmth and appreciation. “You.”

 

“What about me?” Sherlock was puzzled.

 

“You are bloody marvelous, you know.”

 

Sherlock looked steadily at John for a moment. And then a shy hesitant smile graced his lips. “I take it that I may have done something good?”

 

John’s smile widenedas he reached out and patted Sherlock on the arm. “Very good. You’re a good friend, you know.”

 

Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment and then his shy grin widened. His eyes lit up and he looked pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.

 

Neither man spoke for a few moments, simply enjoyed the companionable silence and the restorative properties of the tea.

 

Sherlock kept shooting covert glances at the other man, watching.

 

Finally. What he’d been waiting for.

 

John began to yawn.

 

As his head began to nod over his mug, Sherlock reached over and removed it from John’s hand before he could spill it. He tried to protest, but he was shushed and Sherlock placed the mug on the bedside table. He then helped John settle back onto the pillows and drew the duvet up over his shoulders.

 

He was fast asleep before Sherlock could even turn to go downstairs and retrieve the items he required.

 

Back in a few moments, he stood looking at John. There was something oddly peacefully in watching him sleep. Sherlock chewed at his lower lip, wondering if this would still be considered good. He sighed, questioning once more how he had been talked into this. He was perfectly happy with the way things were. When he had first met John, he had been attracted to him and yesterday there had been a moment he could have pushed it. He knew how to manipulate people into doing what they might otherwise hesitate to do and it would have been so easy with John. He was halfway there already.

 

But now there was something more here than just bedding the man.

 

_He called me his friend._

 

Before he could change his mind, knowing this was what was required, he carefully pulled the duvet away from John’s leg and placed the new tec Mycroft had given him against a likely looking vein. Early designs for an auto-extractor had been clumsy and not worked the way they were suppose to, leaving more bruising and cellular damage than old-fashioned syringes had. But this was from Mycroft and it would, naturally, be the latest design. No one else had one these yet.

 

The part of him not concerned with the morality of what he was doing, was wondering what would have happened if they had had these before he was clean. Safe, sterile, no needle marks. Well, not these precisely. He would have used an injector. Mycroft would never have seen the scars on his arms. He was pragmatic enough to realize that probably wouldn’t have stopped his brother from discovering his extensive drug habit and putting a stop to it.

 

He capped the sample and held it up to the light. He then covered up John’s leg.

 

He stood there for a moment longer and drank in the sight of John simply and peacefully asleep. If nothing else, there was one thing that pleased him. By putting the sedative in John’s tea he’d been able to give the other man a few moments of ease.

 

His friend. His John.

 

He was somewhat bemused by the odd stirring of possessiveness surging through his chest. He hesitated and then gently touched his lips against John’s brow.

 

“Sleep. It will all work out. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musings are back to Long Haul by No and the chapter title is from the lyrics.


	6. Rusted From the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I do not own, which is probably a good thing as I am definitely more than a little twisted:P

Hughes was not happy.

 

Wilson had sent him to speak to the client. He dare not use the words ‘crazy arse madman’ even in his thoughts. This guy was scary and spooky enough to pick up on it. Wilson had sent him because he was tired of being the one to bring him bad news. Hughes walked down the brightly light corridor to the client’s personal office. Since when did a mere client get his own space? Oh yeah. When he owned you.

 

He knocked tentatively on the door.

 

A voice from inside sang out “Come in and it had better be good news!”

 

 _I am fucked_ , thought Hughes.

 

He opened the door because there was no place else to go and stepped inside.

 

“Well? What is it?” Sharp, dark eyes glanced very briefly in his direction.

 

“It’s the subject, sir. You need to see this. Something has happened.”

 

The client stood and was in Hughes space before he could react.

 

“He had better be all right. That man is so very important to me. In so many ways.” The words were said softy, almost a caress. Hughes shivered. It was not a promise of love and friendship held in the client’s tones.

 

“Please sir. You need to come.”

 

“Very well. But if I am not happy, you and Wilson may have to volunteer for a little game I am going to start playing with Holmes. Oh don’t fret.” He pouted. “You will have a blast.” And the client giggled.

 

He left the room ahead of Hughes and entered the observation room.

 

“Well?” he said to Wilson.

 

“Sorry sir. One of your operative’s has kidnapped the subject. She is under the mistaken belief that he is Holmes. She is trying to retrieve a certain jade pin and believes he knows where it is. She has also been asking the subject if he knows anything about you.”

 

“Well, let us see what is going on then, shall we? Nothing like a little excitement to brighten my day!”

 

The client seated himself in Wilson’s chair and leaned back, fingers laced together and he rested his head in his hands. There was a sharp, predatory stare in the man’s eyes as the ‘vid was played.

 

oOo

 

John blinked, slowly. Pain blossomed in his head and his vision was blurred. He felt like someone had being using his skull for rugby. He couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened. He blinked again and took in the sight of torches and oil barrels which flickered with flames. He was in a tunnel or maybe it was just hell, he wasn’t sure. Sarah was tied and gagged in a chair next to him. She didn’t look hurt just roughed up and scared. He vaguely remembered answering the door, expecting take-away and getting cold-cocked instead.

 

A soft, female voice spoke, “A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket.”

 

_What the fuck?_

 

“Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes.”

 

John blinked again and tried to shake his head, but it only increased the throbbing. He was positive he had a concussion.

 

A short Asian woman stood in front of him. It was the lady from the circus. But instead of the elaborate, beaded costume she had been wearing earlier, she had on dark glasses and a leather jacket. It looked like real leather, rare and highly illegal. He tried to chase such irrelevant thoughts from his head, but he was having trouble focussing. Had she called him Mr. Holmes?

 

“I…I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.” And she listed all of the incriminating ID he’d had in his pocket. This was absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock’s picture was on his ID and they were obviously nothing alike. All she had to do was really look, instead of carrying out this farce.

 

John shook his head again. What the hell was going on?

 

He argued with her about the mistaken identity, futile to be sure. She pulled out a gun and showed him it was loaded with blanks, had been when it had been fired at the museum, told him he would already be dead if she really wanted him to be. She re-loaded the gun with live ammunition and leaned toward him.

 

“I am Shan.”

 

“You are Shan?”

 

“Yes and I want to know what your involvement in this is.”

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

 

“What do you know of the one who is called M? He has taken care of us and I wish to protect him. I need to know. I need to know what your interest in the jade pin is as well, Mr. Homes. We had a buyer in the West for it, but one of my people got greedy and took it. Where’s the hair pin, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Please, please listen to me. I am not Sherlock Holmes. I haven’t found whatever it is you’ve been looking for. Let Sarah go. She’s not involved in this.”

 

“Ah, but everything in the West has it’s price and her safety is my price for the return of the pin.”

 

By this time the henchmen/circus performers had moved Sarah’s chair in front of the crossbow. Shan reached up with her knife and twisted it into the sandbag. The sand trickled out at a much faster rate than when it had just been an escape act. She repeated the words from the performance, relished the fear Sarah was exhibiting, enjoyed the theatricality of it all and it made the words seem crueler.

 

Sarah struggled with the ropes to no avail.

 

“Please!” John said desperately. “I am _not_ Sherlock Holmes!”

 

“I don’t believe you!” Shan hissed back at him.

 

Just then a familiar voice called out from the shadows. “You should you know. Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

 

“Late,” John muttered under his breath, as he breathed a sigh of relief.

 

He squinted down the tunnel. The gloom and his vision didn’t help him to see clearly what was happening. There were various scuffling sounds which echoed down the tunnel and he thought he could just make out a tall figure as he swung a piece of wood at one of the henchmen. Sherlock kept talking as he stalled for time and distracted Shan from simply shooting John. Meanwhile the sandbag was emptying at an alarming rate.

 

One of the oil barrels was knocked over and suddenly there was a flurry of movement behind Sarah as Sherlock attempted to untie her as quickly as possible. Out of nowhere a figure appeared from the shadows and wrapped a long red silk rope around Sherlock’s throat and began throttling him. Sherlock threw him off, but was entangled once again.

 

John shook himself out of his stupor and shuffled his chair over to the crossbow. His chair tipped and he fell to the ground. He just managed to kick his foot up and knock the spear out of Sarah’s way as the bag emptied and the ball dropped. It was released straight into the henchman’s chest.

 

oOo

 

After watching the dramatic rescue of John Watson and the little doctor the client sat back, deep in thought. He then stood abruptly and pulled at his lower lip.

 

“That was not what should have happened. She overstepped her position. She should not be asking questions about me. Well she shall have to be punished. She hurt my toy and I will have to hurt her. If she had killed him I would have been most upset.” He thought for a minute longer and then turned with a cold gleam in his eye.

 

“Here’s what I need to happen, boys.”

 

He outlined his plan. Wilson looked like he might argue.

 

“Well!’ he snapped at him. “Can it be done or not?”

 

“It can but you may damage him by doing this. It’s delicate work, sir. You can’t just switch him on and off. He is John Watson. If you do this there’s no telling what may happen.”

 

The client giggled. “He’ll still be able to fuck won’t he? Even if he has no brain?” he giggled some more.

 

‘Ummm…unknown sir. But probably.” Wilson looked uncomfortable and slightly ill.

 

“Excellent!” and he leaned into Wilson’s space. “Because he is a hell of a lover.” He patted him on the cheek.

 

As he walked away he pulled his ‘phone out and began a ‘vid chat, making arrangements for the next day.

 

Shan’s days were numbered.

 

Wilson and Hughes looked at each other. This could go wrong in so many ways with that crazy arsed madman treating them and the subject like playthings. .

 

Their days were probably numbered as well.

 

oOo

 

After leaving the bank John told Sherlock he was calling around to Sarah’s to check on her. That is what he believed and that is what he thought.

 

Until he was two blocks from the bank and he suddenly stopped.

 

Right in the middle of the pavement.

 

He shook himself and reached up to his head. A splitting headache suddenly pounded its way through his brain. Pain that had begun to dull from the beating he had taken increased. Blood once again trickled out of his nose.

 

John’s friendly, open face changed in an instant. A cold, calculating look fused itself in its place and his stance changed as well. There was still the bearing of the military stamped upon his frame but there was more economy of movement, a different sort of predatory grace took over. He glanced around remembering what had happened to him and who he really was. He was not thrown by the sudden change in personality and the surge of memories. He was angry that it fucking hurt.

 

A black car pulled up to the kerb and without questioning or even thinking about it he climbed inside.

 

oOo

 

The sound of the gun was silenced and the target slumped over her desk.

 

John quickly dismantled the rifle and put the pieces back into the bag he’d been given. It was all done without thought, automatically, moves that had been practiced until they were second nature. He left the building across from Shan’s residence and climbed into the car that had been waiting for him.

 

There was another in the car.

 

“Well done, my friend.” He logged off the computer he had been using to talk to Shan, distracted her whist John set up the shot.

 

He turned to John, John who was not John. Brief as it had to be. Too long as himself and all the work to put him in Watson’s place would be undone.

 

Leaning forward, he stroked the cheek of the imposter, his other hand snuck down and around to his back, fingers finding their way under the other man’s shirt and down into the back of his trousers. “I missed you so very much. You are the only one who understands me. You are the only one who keeps me…well not sane, that’s for sure.” A wicked gleam came to his eyes. “We have a few minutes before I have to return you to your dull and boring life. But I promise, I promise Sebby, it will all be worth it so very soon.” And he leaned in and pushed the shorter man to the seat as he climbed on top of him. He chased and captured the other’s mouth, hard and bruising, with his own and in the back seat of the luxury car took what he wanted.

 

oOo

 

Anthea walked up to Mycroft Holmes, still tapping away on her Blackberry.

 

“They have found Shan’s body, sir. Shot to the head. Sniper. It was a difficult shot and the team believes there is only one person who could have pulled it off. The flat she was in has been thoroughly searched but there was nothing about Moriarty or Dr. Watson. Not at first blush, sir.”

 

“Thank you.” He sighed. He pulled out his ‘phone.

 

**We believe John shot Shan. MH**

**So? SH**

**Sherlock, this complicates matters. MH**

**No it doesn’t. _He_ may not have even known he did it. SH**

 

Mycroft sighed. His little brother had developed a blind spot when it came to John.

 

**We are almost ready on our end. We are just waiting for Moriarty to make the next move. MH**

**Then by all means proceed and let’s get this over with. SH**

**Are you ready? MH**

**I have been ready and waiting for this all my life. SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musings and Chapter title from Rusted From the Rain by Billy Talent.


	7. I Feel Better When I'm Numb

_*sequence12b – the subject has been released back onto the street. The nanites have been reconfigured to alter his memories once more to those of John Watson. He is showing signs of confusion and deep distress. The subject is…*_

Wilson paused in the recording, and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He was feeling nauseated and ill at ease. This was not what he had signed up for. _That poor bastard._

 

He resumed the recording.

 

_*The subject is making his way back to the shared flat. His respiration and heart rate are elevated and he is employing techniques learned from the army to scout the area. He is paranoid and appears frightened. He is aware that something has happened, just not precisely what that may be. We have no way of knowing what damage switching his memories around and suppressing his true personality once again will do to him. The client seems unconcerned._

_Personal notes (to be destroyed after recording) – I have come to the conclusion we have done what we should not. We are destroying the mind of a good man and helping to destroy the mind of one who does not deserve our pity. He is truly evil. As is the man we both work for. It would be my wish that if one of them had to survive this endeavor it would be John Watson. Everything I have observed proves he is a good man. Everything thing I have learned of Sebastian Moran, he is not. Our client has made it clear that when this is over all memories of John Watson will be purged from the subject and he will be reinstated back to who he really is. I expressed my concerns once again that he may never be the same. I was, of course ignored.*_

Wilson carefully erased all evidence of his personal notes. All of them. He was certain that he was being spied upon and he knew that he and Hughes’ usefulness was coming to an end. He had made his peace with that. He rather felt he deserved what would happen to him.

 

He did have one more card up his sleeve, to use an old saying.

 

oOo

John’s hand shook as he poured the hot water over the tea bag. Water splashed up and over the edge of the mug and trickled across the counter. He didn’t notice, so lost in his own thoughts. He failed to immediately feel the flare of pain blooming along the fingers of his left hand, which was attempting to hold the mug steady, as water splashed across them. Another hand came from behind him and gently removed the kettle from his grasp.

 

A soft, deep voice quietly intoned, “Perhaps if you poured with your left hand you wouldn’t burn yourself.”

 

John was gently guided to the sink where Sherlock turned on the cold water and pushed the injured hand under the stream. He turned, leaving John standing there, staring at his hand as if it had betrayed him, his body still faintly vibrating with some undisclosed emotion. Sherlock wiped up the spill and finished making the tea. He shut the water off, placed a hand on John’s elbow then led him to the couch where he pushed him down into a seated position and sat beside, their knees just touching. John continued to stare at his hands, as they both shook violently not just the familiar tremor of the left. Sherlock took both hands in his and John jolted with the contact. He finally raised his eyes and looked at Sherlock, briefly. In that quick glance Sherlock saw deep despair and anguish radiating out from John’s eyes, before he looked back at the floor again.

 

“What happened? You’ve been gone for hours. Sarah said you never made it to her place.”

 

John’s eyes flickered up again, before he shuddered and then shook his head. “I…” he began, cleared his throat and tried again, “I…I don’t know.” The stammer was a whisper of anguish. Sherlock felt he would crack from the despair it held. John drew in a deep breath and shuddered again. “I can’t remember anything after leaving the bank. I came around, I guess you could say, a block from the flat.” Sherlock continued to watch John’s face with complete focus. “I…,” John started again but didn’t seem to be able to move beyond that word.

 

Sherlock asked, the sound cautious and low, a measure of real concern permeated his voice, one that wouldn’t be present for anyone else, “John, are you hurt?”

 

The shorter man blindly shook his head back and forth, his mouth working, “No…yes…I don’t know.” he finally gave up in defeat.

 

Sherlock removed one hand from John’s and took both of his in the other. He lifted up his freed hand and brushed the fringe off of his friend’s forehead, in an uncharacteristically tender manner. “John. Perhaps you need to go…”

 

Before he could finish the statement the other man’s head shook back and forth violently, “No, no hospitals, Sherlock. No.”

 

“John, something happened to you and someone needs to check you over.”

 

His head whipped around to face Sherlock. He made an aborted head shake and turned it into a brief, tight nod in the other’s direction. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the almost giddy feeling coursing through him. John trusted _him_.

 

He didn’t say or do anything for a moment, but John could feel his gaze travel over him. There was nothing to compare with that feeling and he knew he’d recognize Sherlock’s gaze flicking over him anywhere. There was something almost physical about it.

 

Unexpectedly Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed John’s hair and along his neck. If he hadn’t been so on edge he might have found it intimate and arousing. But there was nothing personal in what Sherlock was doing. It was purely clinical.

 

“You’ve had a shower. And you’ve used different soap and shampoo. It’s more expensive than your own brand.” Sherlock rattled off these facts, but with out his usual detachment.

 

The shorter man’s eyebrows went up. He had no memory of having a shower. Sherlock next looked carefully at both of John’s hands nothing telling except how strong and capable they were. There was no evidence Sherlock could see with his naked eye that John had fired a weapon. Satisfied there was no evidence to connect John to the assassination of Shan, he was pleased to be correct in telling Mycroft he might not know he had done it.

 

Sherlock stood and without relinquishing the other’s hand, tugged the former solider up and off the couch.

 

John looked up with a troubled, questioning face.

 

“Come,” ordered Sherlock. “You’re going to bed. You have had a shock and it appears you’ve lost your memory. It may be drugs, it may be something else, but you aren’t capable of doing anything until you’ve slept. Perhaps afterwards you will remember something. Perhaps not.”

 

He pulled John after him, but instead of up the stairs and to the bedroom that was John’s, he steered him to his own room.

 

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John’s voice sounded almost normal in his outrage at his flatmate’s behaviour.

 

“I am putting you to bed in my room. I can keep a better eye on you there. I will need your clothes. I am going to check them for evidence. Perhaps there is something on them I can use. And I want to check you for injury.”

 

“Injury?”

 

“Injury,” Sherlock’s tone brooked no argument. “Hmmm…wait here.”

 

Sherlock jogged out of the room and John heard him run up the stairs in his customary two-steps-at-a-time way to the bedroom above. John could hear, overhead, drawers being opened and shut and then sounds on the stairs again. Sherlock appeared back in the room with a t-shirt and boxers in his hand. “You can change into these after you’ve taken off your clothes.” He stated it matter of factly, as if John shedding his clothes in front of him meant nothing. John wasn’t sure if that was true.

 

The detective stood the doctor by the side of the bed and moved very cautiously. He felt he was dealing with a frightened, wild animal. Sherlock reached toward John’s jumper and the other man momentarily stopped his hands. The taller man stared into his eyes, projecting nothing but reassurance. He nodded, his face resigned. The detective noted John’s heart rate had increased from nervousness. Sherlock kept his hands where John could see them and with quiet murmurs told him exactly what he was doing. He tugged on the hem of the jumper and made the other man jump again. John was acting like a victim of something other than memory loss. He slowed his movements, continued to speak in low tones and unbuttoned the shirt. Chest bare, silvery green eyes swept over it and there appeared to be no marks on the front. Sherlock skimmed a gentle hand down the clearly defined muscles on John’s chest, checked for any signs of bruising, visible or not. The man held his jaw clamped shut, eyes forward. He barely blinked. Sherlock hesitated before he told John he was going to remove his shirt to check his back. John’s nod was barely noticeable.

 

Sherlock pulled the shirt off and turned John around. He was expecting to see something, some mark of abuse of some sort on the surface of the skin. There was…

 

“Nothing. You do not have any marks, no signs of any injury or...anything else.” Sherlock’s voice sounded puzzled.

 

John looked up, relief evident on his face. “You were expecting something, weren’t you?”

 

Sherlock, whose eyes continued to sweep across John’s skin, only marred by the scar of the gunshot wound, “From the way you were acting I assumed the worst.”

 

John barked a cold, bitter laugh. “Yeah, but just because you can’t see anything. This is only the top half Sherlock.” His face flushed with embarrassment and shame.

 

Sherlock placed a hand on either shoulder and gave John a gentle shake. “Let’s assume the best John. Perhaps you are only feeling like you were assaulted because you _were_ assaulted, but not in the manner we are both fearing.” His hands swept back along John’s shoulders and squeezed them briefly, then handed him the t-shirt and boxers. “I’ll just step out of the room for a moment whilst you change.” He turned to go but was stopped by John’s hand on his arm.

 

“Please stay,” a wistful appeal.

 

Sherlock looked back at John’s face. What he saw there made him nod and he turned his back to give John some privacy.

 

He could hear John remove the remainder of his clothes and place them with the jumper and shirt. John tapped him on the shoulder when he was done. Sherlock turned and observed he still retained his humiliated and shamefaced expression. He moved into John’s space and he took his chin in his hand and turned it up so John could look at him.

 

“ _You_ did nothing wrong, John.” John noticed the emphasis on the word you, which he found strange and reassuring at the same time.

 

“Then why do I feel like I did something terrible, Sherlock?” John refused to meet his eyes.

 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then did something he wouldn’t normally do. He felt John needed this and although neither was demonstrative, would instinctively crave reassurance and comfort. Sherlock felt on some level he needed it as well. Something, he suspected he knew what, had happened to John, or more likely to the body he was in, more than what Mycroft knew. He put his arms around him and pulled him into a hug. He would not normally do this, would not presume with John, but he had been attracted to him on every level since their first meeting and it was as easy as breathing to offer this to him, without hope for reciprocation, just to offer it to him.

 

John stiffened at first and then began to relax as Sherlock’s hands moved back and forth across his back in a comforting motion. He leaned into Sherlock and placed his head on the other’s chest, closed his eyes and was comforted by the rhythm of the detective’s heart, thudding just below the surface of his skin. He took a deep breath and released all of the tension he had been feeling since ‘waking up’ on Baker Street. Sherlock, meanwhile, laid his chin on top of the shorter man’s head. The two stood like that for a few moments until they both recognized it was perhaps too soon for this. Then with a final pat on the back and Sherlock said, “Let’s get you into bed, then shall we?”

 

“If the Yarders could hear you say that,” John chuckled in an almost normal tone of voice.

 

Sherlock’s chest rumbled with an answering laugh as he continued to prod and push John into the bed and under the covers. He turned to pick up the clothes on the floor when he was stopped once again by a hand on his arm. He looked at the pleading in John’s eyes and nodded. He left the pile of clothing where it was and climbed into bed beside the other man. He didn’t ask and he didn’t think it strange or odd but he automatically lay behind John and wrapped an arm over the other drew him close. John sighed and relaxed further until his breathing became more regular and he slipped into a light slumber.

 

Sherlock stayed there, listening to John breathe a while longer, watched his face intently, whilst he slept and rubbed a hand up and down John’s arm, thinking. When he was sure that moving wouldn’t disturb John he climbed carefully out of bed and gathered the clothes on the floor to check for trace.

 

He knew, roughly, where John had been the past few hours but not exactly. He couldn’t let John know he knew. That would be letting the people who were behind this know he was aware of what was going on and if the wanted to find them and stop them he had to seem ignorant. He was hoping for something, anything to give him more information. He had the feeling that it was going to be sooner rather than later that things were revealed as to the full extent of the game being played.

 

He was excited by all the possibilities, even as he was anxious for how John was being used in this.

 

He refused to think of the man as anything other than John. No matter what was said and what had happened, evidence to the contrary, no matter what Mycroft believed, he was and would always be John Watson.

 

He walked with the clothes to the kitchen and began to go through the list of things he needed to do to the clothes for processing. Before he got started he pulled out his ‘phone and texted his brother.

 

**This needs to end now. SH**

**Patience brother. It will be coming to an end in a few days time. MH**

 

oOo

 

From behind the now blank monitors, dark whilst john Watson slept, Wilson watched the unholy glee consume the client’s face.

 

“So close Sherly, baby, so close. Almost got into Johnny’s pants, didn’t you? How sad. No worries. I’m sure you two will get a chance to tangle in the sheets before too long. Lots of sexual tension, eh Wilson?” He clapped the other man on the back.

 

He turned to go, paused, pulled on his lip and then turned back. “Make sure you keep me informed. I want to watch _that_ , big time, live action. Might get a few pointers!” he grinned a shark’s grin and winked at the two men. “Oh and see what you can do about watching Sherly in other ways than through dear Johnny’s head. He’s up to something and I want to know what it is.”

 

He turned to go once more and then stopped and spun very quickly, “Oh and Wilson. Come see me in a few hours. I have a little job on the side I need you to do.”

 

Wilson cleared his throat nervously. “Sir? I mean yes, sir.”

 

“Don’t worry so much, Wilson. It’s not healthy. You won’t fail me. You are sooooo very necessary to help me get Sherlock to come and play a game. I have big plans, Wilson, Big Plans!” He winked again and left the room.

 

Wilson turned to Hughes, “Why does that not make me feel better?” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musings Numb by Holly McNarland – chapter title from lyrics of same song.


	8. Chase Distraction of Your Own Existence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diverting here a bit from the original BBC The Great Game – it will retain certain elements but not all:) - because I can:P

**_*_ ** _sequence13a – The subject slept for several hours and when he awoke the client entered the lab. He seemed more…jovial than usual, but also distracted and excited about something. He was very interested to watch the subject. Although thrilled by the actions on the ‘vid he seemed to be in more of an anticipatory mood. The reason for this became clear toward the end of the ‘vid. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together and understand he had arranged the whole thing. I find myself making more observations about the client than about the subject. I have lost the ability for objectivity and I have lost the ability to be any more scared than I already am.*_

 

The light had almost gone from the sky when John woke up. There was a red tinge in the west and the sounds of London had changed to a different rhythm. John blinked sleepily, confused for a moment as to where he was. He remembered with a groan. He rubbed his face with his hands wondering at what level of embarrassment he would be at when he faced Sherlock.

 

As he became more aware he felt a presence at his side. He glanced over and found he was being watched rather intently.

 

“God, Sherlock! Do you always stare at your flatmates when they are asleep? Have you been here this whole time?” Apparently embarrassment would be at a high level.

 

Sherlock shook his head and said, “No, I just came in a few minutes ago. I have been trying to run tests on the evidence your clothing provided.”

 

“Anything?” John asked, aware of a growing anxiety he attempted to keep out of his voice.

 

“Inadequate. I used the computer rather than run my own tests hoping for faster results.” He grimaced. “Now I want to run them by hand again to see what I missed. I have found some dark hairs on your jumper. Male, but no DNA profile in the database. Which is odd as most citizens are registered. Intriguing really. So he is someone who has quite possible found a way to cover his tracks or he is an Unregistered. I suspect a mixture of both. He also uses high-end product in his hair.” He paused. “It was the same brand in your sample.” He continued to study John’s face and noticed the growing discomfort and signs of stress returning.

 

John turned his head and stared blankly at the ceiling, not sure how he felt, except lost.

 

Sherlock did not want to startle John, did not want to scare him. The need to comfort anyone before John came had been nonexistent, but now he wanted to, wanted to and needed to protect him. He took the plunge, prepared to move back if it wasn’t acceptable. It was hard for him to know sometimes. He was going with instincts in an area he wasn’t familiar with. He laid a hand on the side of his face.

 

John blinked and refocused on Sherlock’s face, “What happened, Sherlock?” He hated the note of uncertainty he had in his voice, but he pushed it aside and asked Sherlock the hard questions. “Why can’t I remember? Why I am I so afraid?”

 

Sherlock continued to stare into John’s eyes taking in additional information, but said nothing.

 

John blurted out “You know what’s going on, don’t you?” He sat up a bit. “For God’s sake Sherlock, tell me before I go mad!”

 

Sherlock hesitated and then said, “I suspect I know what is going on,” he lied. “I need more information. I am hesitant to tell you because it may cause more damage to you than being honest.” Here he slipped in truth. “John, trust me. I will tell you when I know all the facts.” A mixture of the two. He nodded slightly, pleased that John trusted him. He really couldn’t tell John anything. Not here, not now, not all he believed to be true. He was aware that even saying this would tip off those who watched.

 

John blinked again and turned his head to look at the ceiling, not saying anything more, just laying there. Sherlock stroked down the side of his face, not really aware he was doing it. Another level of his brain analysed the sensations, enjoying the touch of his skin on John’s. It was more of a comfort for him perhaps. The other man shifted a bit and moved closer toward Sherlock. Sherlock laid his forehead against his, the proximity of his face caused the doctor to refocus upon the detective’s once again. Sherlock traced his hand down John’s neck and felt his pulse. It was erratic and he wasn’t sure if it was from fear or something else; most likely fear. He withdrew his hand.

 

John reached over, captured his hand and put it back. He then cleared his throat and swallowed. “I need this to go slow. I am not ready for much more than this Sherlock, but with everything that’s happened, it may be soon. If you’ll be patient.” And he lifted his head and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock hesitated and then let himself go, sinking into John’s mouth, not forcing him, letting whatever this was between them stay soft and quiet. Underneath there were churning emotions and passionate feelings, but he didn’t rush anything. He had been waiting for John all of his life; he had said as much, in a different way to Mycroft. He could wait until the other was ready. He trailed his hand down to John’s chest where he could feel his heart beating like a trapped bird.

 

John reached up and had just wrapped his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck when the world exploded.

 

oOo

 

The client blew a raspberry when John and Sherlock kissed and whooped when the noise of an explosion came across the monitor.

 

“And that, gentlemen, is how you get someone’s attention! Thank you very much! I’ll be here all week!” with that the client swept out of the room and Wilson and Hughes just looked at each other.

 

Hughes stood and left the room, shaking his head.

 

Wilson waited a few minutes to ensure he was alone and then he reached over and sent a file he’d prepared, attached it so it would be received, embedded. He knew exactly how this would play out. He knew he wouldn’t live much past the time the message was delivered and opened. He had done everything he could to make amends and he was at peace with what he was about to do.

 

oOo

 

John was trying to sweep up the broken glass from the explosion the next morning when he received a message from his sister. He rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s Harry. She heard on the news. I’ll take this upstairs in case there’s shouting.”

 

Sherlock merely grunted.

 

As John left, Mycroft entered without even knocking. His brother just rolled his eyes, remained in his chair and plucked discordant notes on his violin, which became more strident the longer his brother stood there.

 

“Where’s the good doctor?”

 

“Upstairs, talking to his sister. Apparently she was worried,” he said in a bored tone. Sherlock really didn’t care about John’s sister.

 

Mycroft moved over to John’s chair, brushed off the seat and sat down facing this brother.

 

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

 

John returned to the room. He looked strained. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and he shook his head, rubbing at his face as he moved to sit on the sofa.

 

“Feeling better, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked. John huffed, turned red and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock flicked his gaze at John and shrugged and went back to staring into space.

 

“It is being reported as a gas explosion,” Mycroft spoke to Sherlock.

 

“It wasn’t a gas explosion.” Sherlock countered.

 

“No. It appears to be the work of rebels from the Colonies. Protesting their human rights or some such nonsense. They left a message.” He pulled out his ‘phone. John watched as it molded to Mycroft’s hand and as he scrolled down to find what he was looking for. “Ah, yes. Here it is. ‘Death to the Empire’. Not particularly imaginative.” Mycroft put the ‘phone away and looked as uninterested as he sounded.

 

Sherlock was about to respond when his own ‘phone chimed. He looked at the display. His face stilled and he opened up the ‘vid option. A message began playing. John and Mycroft both strained to hear the words coming from the device in the detective’s hand.

 

“My dear, I hope you got my little message. It was fun using the rebels that way. They wanted to blow something up and I wanted your attention. Convenient all around, but in the end they are expendable. I am inviting you to come and play with me, you and your dear brother and your companion, your trusty sidekick, your pet. Do you trust him Sherlock? You shouldn’t, you know. Pets can have more than one master.” There was a pause in the ‘vid before the ‘voice’ started speaking again. “Sherly, you need to come and see me, you really do, but I am hesitant to let you see where I work. All my little secrets you know. So we are going to meet in one of my favourite spots.” The address of a public swimming pool was sent to the ‘phone.

 

Then the ‘voice’ started again.

 

“Be there in an hour or ‘Boom’!” The glow from the ‘vid disappeared.

 

The three men looked at each other.

 

John looked pale. “What did he mean? You shouldn’t trust me?”

 

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other.

 

“It’s nothing John.”

 

“No! No! It’s not! It’s something! What the hell did he mean?”

 

Sherlock left his chair and stood in front of John. He pulled him to his feet, gripped him by the shoulders and swung him around. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes, of course, but…”

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Everything was there, belief in John, love, hope and determination. Sherlock was letting John see it all, opening up with everything he felt about him.

 

John hesitated and then nodded.

 

“Good!” Sherlock said

 

He was still staring into Sherlock’s eyes when he felt a pressure at the back of his neck. He looked confused for a moment and then slumped forward. Sherlock caught him and laid him on the sofa.

 

“Quickly Mycroft,” He said. Mycroft, who had snuck up behind John when Sherlock had spun him around, administered a second injection into the unconscious man’s neck.

 

“That should do it. The sedative should be wearing off…”

 

John blinked.

 

“Now,” Mycroft smiled at John.

 

“What happened?”

 

“You got dizzy, from the explosion perhaps. After effects.’

 

John looked at Sherlock. “I…umm…that’s weird.”

 

“No time to explain. Feel up to taking a ride with Mycroft? Going to catch a master criminal tonight and perhaps get some answers or at least see if I am right, which of course I am.” Sherlock smiled at John and then bent and kissed him on the forehead. “It will be all right, John. I promise.”

 

“If you two are quite finished,” Mycroft said, wearily. Sherlock grinned at John and held out his hand to him. John looked at it a minute and then let him pull him up.

 

The three men left the flat and climbed into Mycroft’s car. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the address given to them on the ‘vid.

 

They left the car and entered the building, the door banging shut behind them. The place appeared empty. There was a strong smell of chlorine and the sound of water lapping as they walked onto the pool deck.

 

Sherlock, walked ahead of the others, called out, “Hello! Here we are. We’ve come to play your little game. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

 

There was a soft, hushed sound, the sound of a door opening at the other end of the pool and out stepped a dark haired man, slightly taller than John, impeccably dressed, hands in his pockets. He sauntered toward the men standing there. He spoke within a lilt and a voice full of good humour, but the closer he came the clearer was the madness in his eyes.

 

“Hi Sherlock. James. James Moriarty. So glad to finally meet you. It’s been such fun, playing all of these games with you, the cabbie and the jade pin. So much fun.” He paused and his eyes slid over to the doctor and seemed to caress him. “So many secrets.”

 

Sherlock looked bored, “Interesting choice of location. Planning to take a swim?”

  
“Oh Sherlock. This place! This place is the sight of my first crime. This is the place where I set my foot on the path I am walking and began my carrier.” He turned around, his arms extended. “Here I killed a nobody and I gained a new understanding. He was a pathetic excuse for a boy who tormented and taunted me. But I showed him. I killed him. Just. Like. That.” And he snapped his fingers

 

He shrugged, “Moving on! All games must come to an end and there can only be one winner. I can’t believe you actually came here. You. Are. So. Gullible.” He turned around again and whistled. Two rather large, brutish looking men entered through the same door, dragging another man between them. The man had been severely beaten. The two thugs stood him up and leaned him against the wall.

 

“Let me introduce you to my good friend, Dr. Alan Wilson. Dr. Wilson here thought he’d be cute and try to stop me from doing something he thinks I shouldn’t. He thinks I haven’t been aware of his little activities. He thinks I don’t know he developed morals.” He walked up to Wilson and grabbed his chin. The man was barely conscious. “He thinks I don’t know about the message he sent Dr. Watson.”

 

John looked puzzled. “Message? What message? I don’t even know this man.”

 

Moriarty laughed and came closer to John and looked him in the face. The doctor stood his ground and glared back at him.

 

“Oh Johnny boy, if you only knew. But…you don’t.” He reached out to touch his face and John moved out of range. Moriarty narrowed his eyes but then he smiled a smile, which did not reach his eyes and shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

He walked a few steps away and then twirled to stand in front of John once more. “Dr. Wilson sent you an embedded file. The first message you received on your ‘phone after he sent it would play the file and let you know things you shouldn’t. But because I knew about it…well…it isn’t going to work the way he hopes. Too bad for Dr. Wilson.” He shook his head sadly and then he leaned into John’s space. “Too bad for Dr. Watson, too.” He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and drew out a gun. A new model, one the rebels had been using against the army, using bullets like the one used on John. Moriarty stared at the gun for a moment and stroked the barrel, a reverent look upon his face. He held the gun out to the other man.

 

“Take it, Johnny boy.”

 

John stared at the gun and back at Moriarty.

 

“You’re mad,” he whispered.

 

“You think? But that’s _not_ the point! Go on, Johnny. Take the gun.” John’s hand shook at his side. He seemed to be battling something inside himself, a war was almost visible on his face, sweat beaded up at his temples. Blood began to trickle out of his nose and he rubbed his left hand against his forehead. He raised his right hand without even being aware of it. He reached out and took the gun out of Moriarty’s hand and simply stared at it.

 

Sherlock moved, as if he were going to reach out to John, but Mycroft held him back, with a touch to his arm. Neither man said a word.

 

Moriarty whirled on the two of them. “Let’s see who is really in control of your dear, dear Dr. Watson!” He leaned back and said in a calm, clear voice. “Now Sebby!”

 

A change came over John’s face. His face cleared and stilled like a pool of water, no ripples broached its surface, as though a decision had been made. Gone was the pleasant, kind, warm John Watson, present even in the dark moments. Instantly it was replaced with a cold look of contempt and indifference. He raised the gun in one swift movement and shot Wilson in the head. Before he could turn and lower the gun, Moriarty reached over, stroked the back of John’s neck and spoke tenderly in his ear.

 

“Now my dear Sebby. I want you to shoot Mr. Mycroft Holmes. There’s a good boy.” And he kissed and licked up the side of John’s neck.

 

John turned his upper body, leveled the gun in Mycroft’s direction and said, in a different, harsher tone.

 

“With pleasure,” and he began to squeeze the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical musings– Chapter title once again from lyrics of song Numb by Holly McNarland. I am a little obsessed with this song:)


	9. Man in the Box

**_*_ ** _sequence13b – Wilson is missing. He is nowhere in the facilities and I am left to record and watch. Who the fuck am I kidding? He’s probably already dead. Wilson may not have made it but I sure as hell plan on it. Christ! I have been given instructions by the client to revert the subject to original personality when he gives the command ‘Now Sebby’. I have programmed the computer and the nanites as well. I am not sticking around. I have made copies of all of our work here. I intend to disappear and sell the information to the highest bidder. If I get out of here alive that is. Fuck this whole experiment. Fuck the client, too.*_

 

 

John, who was not thinking of himself as John anymore, but as Colonel Sebastian Moran, began to squeeze the trigger.

 

“John,” Sherlock called softy. There was a flicker of something in John’s eyes. It was like a flash of something warm. It appeared for an instant but it had given Sherlock a measure of hope. Mycroft squeezed his brother’s arm again and he whispered to Sherlock, “Not yet.”

 

“John?” John who was not John scoffed, his voice cold and wintery, nothing like the soft summer tones of his John. “Your precious John. He’s dead. I killed him. Shot him in the shoulder. Killed all of his team. And then, after I took his memories, I left him to die. Begged and pleaded. _God please let me live!_ You don’t even know the real John Watson, just his fucking memories. He’s been dead for months. And you had no idea, did you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes glittered dangerously and a smug smile played about the corner of his mouth. “Of course I did, Mycroft, too. Almost from the start.”

 

Moriarty, who had been watching the proceedings with something akin to glee, suddenly looked as if someone had taken away his favourite toy. “That is not possible.”

 

“Oh it is quite possible. We keep close tabs on the comings and goings of people who come within our sphere of influence,” Mycroft said, cool and collected, not even looking bothered by the fact a gun was trained on him. “My people are very good at their job. After he became my brother’s flatmate, we tracked Captain John Watson’s movements before he came back to London and there were some discrepancies. Odd things. And there were things John himself said and did. You believed you covered your tracks and your work or at least the work of that poor fellow lying dead there, but there are always tells, crumbs if you were. Your people are simply not as good as mine.”

 

He smirked. “You left enough clues to give my brother a puzzle. You would think you would know there is nothing Sherlock likes more than a challenge. That was a mistake, I’m afraid.”

 

Moriarty shrugged, “Well that’s only a part of my plan, really. You have no idea what this whole thing has been about. So many fingers, in so many pies.” His eyes shifted. “Not really of course. That would be disgusting.” He grinned his shark grin, looking for all the world as if finger pie was delicious.

 

Sherlock smiled. “We have been five steps ahead of you the whole time. We know you have been instigating the rebels in the Colonies. You have been using them, when they thought they were using you. All of your connections to weapons manufacturing. We know you’re behind the bombing, used some expendable rebels to take the fall. And now you are going to have Colonel Moran shoot my brother and make it look like a rebel assassination. Does he know?”

 

Moriarty looked more bemused than shocked. “Does he know he’s going to take the fall? Martyr himself? I don’t know. Did you Sebby? Did you know you were going to kill Holmes and then die tragically and so heroically? Labeled as a rebel? Hmmm?” He stroked his hand up Sebastian’s neck. “Such a waste, but for a good cause.”

 

Sebastian blinked and frowned. He shook his head. “That’s not what you said. You told me when this was over I’d be me again. You promised.” He seemed confused, but did not lower his gun. Moriarty shrugged and walked away.

 

“Well, I lied.”

 

“But why? James, you said…”

 

Moriarty turned and roared at Sebastian “THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!”

 

“Now Sherlock, “ Mycroft said.

 

“John. Vatican Cameos.”

 

John turned and shot Moriarty, just as cleanly and efficiently as he had shot Wilson, through the head. Moriarty’s body fell to the ground.

 

Mycroft’s men, hidden until that moment, charged through the doors and covered the three men still alive, searching for hidden threats in the facilities. At the moment they entered, John cried out in pain. He held his head in his hands, gun still clutched there but forgotten as he dropped to his knees. Sherlock rushed over to his side.

 

“It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

 

He held John and rocked him as the other man blacked out.

 

oOo

 

In the back of Moran’s head, John could hear the conversation between Sherlock, Mycroft and Moriarty as if through water, but also as if he were being held in place by the pressure of all of the oceans; he could not move and he had no control over the body he was wearing. He struggled to pull the gun away from Mycroft, but to no avail. As much as there were times John had thought Mycroft was a dick, he didn’t want to shoot him. He hated it when Wilson was shot, even though Wilson had said it would happen and it was the price he was willing to pay. It was the inability to do anything that had been the worse part.

 

The download had worked. Wilson had operated around Moriarty’s plans. It downloaded faster than John or Sebastian’s thoughts. From the moment Moriarty had use the trigger words another, different war was being fought inside the head of Sebastian Moran with the memories and personality of John Watson.

 

 ** _*_** _John, I am Dr. Alan Wilson._ There was the sound of a throat being cleared _. You do not know me, but I know you very well. Your thoughts and memories and your personality were stolen from you. The man whose body you inhabit killed you, without thought or remorse. You were made to believe that this was really you. I did this to you. I did this to both of you. You, John Watson, are a good person. You did not deserve this._ _Moriarty has probably guessed I sent an embedded ‘vid attached to which ever message you received next. I need him to believe it has been neutralized, but he won’t guess I have a copy on top of it. He will destroy the decoy. The real message will play when Sebastian is triggered. There is nothing I can do about the nanites. Moriarty would have known if I had tampered with them, but he doesn’t know what else I did. They have been programmed to bring back Sebastian’s memories, but I didn’t program them to destroy yours as I was ordered to. This will give you a fighting chance, but you will have to fight Doctor Watson. If you are brave enough, if you are strong enough. You as Sebastian most likely will probably be ordered to kill me. Please don’t feel regret over this. I have come to accept this. It is a fitting punishment. Good luck. *****_

****

All this played out from the nanosecond the trigger words were spoken by Moriarty to when the gun was fired and Wilson murdered. A faint protest of [ _No!_ ] was barely a brush against Sebastian’s mind.

 

John was now left to think quickly about what he had to do to gain control. It was difficult when Moriarty was distracting him. He recognized him from the things he and Sebastian had done to this body. It’s hard to feel nauseated when you can’t control your body, but he felt like his mind was covered in slime.

 

There was a brief moment, when Sherlock spoke, where he could feel his thoughts surface through Moran’s for an instant [ _Sherlock_ ] his mind whispered, but was ruthlessly crushed by Moran’s. He struggled, but Moran, back in his own existence, was fighting back.

 

John could feel his mind tiring and fraying at the edges. He wasn’t sure he could hold out for long.

 

He concentrated on holding Moran back from shooting Mycroft. He was thinking so hard he almost didn’t hear Sherlock say his name, but he did hear ‘Vatican Cameos. In that instant his thoughts rushed forward with new strength and overran Moran’s. He instinctively turned the gun toward Moriarty, the cause of so much pain and torment to more than just himself and he shot him in the head. No regrets.

 

Moran was not giving up without a fight and he attacked John. He felt himself blacking out. John used his remaining strength and he took them back to the moment he had been shot in Afghanistan. He slipped into unconsciousness and crossed into a vivid memory.

 

John walked in the arid and familiar world of the dessert. He could see two figures in the distance through the heat, haze and the dirt kicked up by the wind. It should have made it difficult to see who they were, but he knew. He, himself, was lying on the ground, his body shot and bleeding, mixing with the dirt and turning it a muddy red. A figure was bent over him and a device was placed on his forehead. He could see the pain and panic in his own eyes. The figure standing over him was of a similar height and build. His face was scarred and his eyes were dead.

 

“They’re brown, your eyes,” he said to the other man. “You took my eyes as well.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Moran stood and looked John up and down. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

 

“This isn’t real. It’s in our mind.”

 

Sebastian looked thoughtful. “You know, he made it sound so easy. So simple.”

 

“Moriarty?”

 

“Yeah. You’d be put in my head and they’d do some work to change me to look like you. I’m to take your eyes in case of rental scans – and of course the colour. Mine are all wrong.”

 

John nodded. He didn’t feel as sick about this as he should. Being unconscious had its benefits.

 

Sebastian shook his head. “You were always there with your damn morals and conscious. Clouded my thinking. I could never break free. And I wasn’t always aware. It wasn’t what I thought.”

 

He paused and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to John. He shook his head. “Those will kill you.”

 

Sebastian snorted. “He thought I didn’t know. I thought I didn’t know.”

 

“Know what?”

 

“He was going to have me killed after I shot Mycroft. I’d be revealed as a rebel martyr. Help the war effort and stir up the Colonies. But I knew or at least I suspected. I could see it in his eyes. I just didn’t want it to be true. I was the only one who could figure him out. Not smart, genius things, but other stuff.” He pulled deep on the cigarette and then looked at it and dropped it on the ground where he twisted it under foot.

 

“Well John. Time’s wasting. You’re going to have to kill me you know. Otherwise I’ll just come back. You’ll never know when I’ll show up again.”

 

“No, “ he said. “I don’t believe I will.”

 

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are, Watson. Don’t go soft.”

 

“That’s not what I meant, Sebastian. I don’t have to kill you. You are disappearing on your own.” He said it with a touch of regret for the other man.

 

Sebastian looked down at his spiritual body, which was becoming more insubstantial as they stood there.

 

“But how?”

 

John shrugged. “I suspect Sherlock had something to do with this. I guess I’ll have to wake up to find out. Goodbye, Sebastian.”

 

And the other man was gone, as if on the breath of the wind. There was nothing left but sand and sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Man in the Box by Alice in Chains. There should be one more chapter after this. I will be able to, hopefully, answer all of the questions:).


	10. To Live My Life As It's Meant To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here is the last chapter. Thank you to all of you who have been following along! You have been very kind.

He awoke briefly, an escape from the darkness and fear. He shouted and begged and asked them to give him back his name. He couldn’t remember who he was and he was alone and scared. He couldn’t move and there was a discordant noise in his head threatening to overwhelm him. Just as he was about to become shattered and lost amidst the swirling sands of his mind, long, caring fingers carded through his hair and a voice he quite liked told him to _Hush_ and _Sleep John_ , _I’m here_. And the howling stopped, the wind died down and he remembered he was John. He went back under, away from the confusion and away from the din, but he pulled the voice down with him and he hung on to it, clung to it, to stay above the dread and uncertainty, which circled below.

 

When he woke the next time it was to the constant beep of hospital monitors. The sound was irritating and it prevented him from slipping back under. He shifted slightly. He could move again and he was comfortable. He was also thoroughly confused. Afghanistan crept in at first, but that could not be right. He’d died there. How could he be here if he was no longer alive? If this was somebody’s idea of an afterlife it pretty much was a let down.

 

He heard someone move beside him and he sighed, a sound full of relief and hope.

 

He croaked out a name. “Sherlock?”

 

“I’m here. Rest, John.”

 

He sighed again. “How long?”

 

“14 hours, 23 minutes and 9 seconds, not counting the brief episode when you were having nightmares.”

 

There was a pause and John felt that same hand touch his hair again. “I was becoming concerned. It was more than a bit not good. Please don’t do that again.”

 

John struggled to raise his eyelids. When they finally cooperated it was to show him Sherlock leaning over the edge of his bed staring at his face. He was biting his lower lip.

 

John smiled or at least attempted to. It felt more like the rictus grin of a skull.

 

“You’re certain I’m John? Aren’t you afraid I might still be Moran?” He had to get it out of the way, beat down the anxiety.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled at the man in the bed.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Who else would you be? You are you. The ‘you’ you are supposed to be. Now go back to sleep. We will discuss this when you are awake and coherent.” Lips replaced the hand and lingered on his forehead. “I am here. I will always be here.”

 

John sighed again and drifted away to a place where, for now, there were no more nightmares.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was watching the news ‘vids when John came out of their bedroom, yawning and stretching. He immediately walked over to where the other man sat, like a magnet pointing north and planted a kiss on top of his head.

 

“Morning.”

 

Sherlock smiled briefly but didn’t say anything just turned back to the news.

 

It had been almost a month since the incident John liked to call ‘The Pool’. Events from that time were still hazy and he was still uncertain as to where it was all going, but most days he was grateful to be alive and intended to live as best he could. He felt almost like he was on borrowed time, having already died twice, once as John and once as Moran.

 

He stood in the kitchen contemplating breakfast. Sherlock was between cases, which meant it was likely he would eat so he made tea and toast for two. He carried the simple breakfast in and placed half beside the detective. He sat across the table from him and slowly chewed and sipped his way through the meal whilst staring out of the window.

 

He was jerked out of his musings by Sherlock’s voice. He’d obviously called him a few times. John muttered a ‘sorry, daydreaming’ and then turned back to stare out the window.

 

“John? You are not listening.”

 

He blushed. “Sorry, Sherlock. I seem to be having trouble focusing today.”

  
“Headache?”

 

“No”

 

“Nose bleed?”

 

“Obviously not. No, I’m fine. I’m just lost in thought.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re worried again, aren’t you? Another great moral debate on the fate of John Watson,” he said it a smidgen of sarcasm. John knew it was a defense mechanism to cover up the worry Sherlock really felt, but would forever deny.

 

“Well how would you feel if you woke up in a different body, but didn’t know it and then find out that not only was it the body of the man who shot and killed you but he’d been sleeping with the madman behind the whole thing. Might give you cause to have a few wonderings about morality.” His tone was full of dark humour but without the bitterness that had been present when he first awoke in the hospital. He was actually pleased at how well he was coping, considering. There really was no precedence for this as far as he knew and it wasn’t something you could go to a therapist to talk it through. He and Sherlock had been stuck trying to feel their way around it as best they could. Sherlock’s idea most of the time was to take him to bed and distract him with the use of his hands and mouth. Sherlock was as clever in bed as he was in other ways. It was generally a very pleasant way to take his mind off of things, but it didn’t answer some of the niggling questions, ones that Sherlock had been avoiding.

 

Sherlock turned off the news and stared at John. “What do you want to know?”

 

“About what?”

 

“About what happened to you. What do you want to know? I feel you are able to handle some of the more unpleasant details now or to at least to discuss it.”

 

“Okay,” he said slowly.

 

“Start with what you already know.” Sherlock’s voice turned compassionate. John felt long feet tangle themselves up with his own under the table as if to give comfort. He cleared his throat and pursed his lips. He stared out the window at first as he found it easier to talk about without looking at Sherlock.

 

“I know some things. It’s unclear and I’m confused, some of it is out of focus but I know this isn’t me, this body I mean. It belonged to somebody else. Sebastian Moran.” He blinked again and tried not to dwell on the horror this could turn into.

 

“You were deliberately shot by Moran in Afghanistan. Do you remember that?”

 

“Bits.” John turned and looked across the table at the other man. “I remember being shot and I think I remember someone standing over me. But it was also in my dreams so it’s hard to separate.” He turned back to the window

 

The feet tugged a little on his ankles, one foot rubbed up and down on the back of his leg. “John, look at me.”

 

He looked. He was being deduced again. Sherlock seemed impassive at first glance but he looked deeper into his eyes and they were warm and full of a mixed bag of emotions. Fear, but not of John, for John. Concern was there and worry but overriding them was something that John had never really seen on the Sherlock’s face before. It was love. He felt his breath hitch.

 

“You are who I have always wanted. Do not be afraid to tell me what is in your head, John Watson.”

 

“But what if I’m not who you think I am.”

 

“John, this may not be the body you were born into, but it is yours. You are you. I have told you this many times and you know I dislike repeating myself, but for you I will make this exception.” He scoffed and pretended to look annoyed but he wasn’t succeeding. “Moriarty and Moran took your life. They took what did not belong to them and they used you like a puppet or a plaything. They took your thoughts and your memories and they put you inside the head of someone else. They stole from you every chance you could have had. If you had just been shot, just been wounded, who knows what would have happened. You might have come back to London. We both know Stamford; the odds are in our favour that we might have met.”

 

He reached for John’s hand, as it lay lax on the table. He captured it, brought it to his lips and he brushed the back of it gently. John never tired of looking at the pink and full mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you look like. It doesn’t matter because they took they best part of you. It’s you inside, John. It always will be. You are perfect for me the way you are. I don’t care about the rest.” He stretched across and kissed John. The other man released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. There was finally a letting go of something that had been consuming him. He had been afraid to talk to Sherlock about this because what if he didn’t want him any more? The kiss helped to relax John, as an affirmation of what Sherlock had been saying, proof he was right and they were compatible. Proof Sherlock wanted him.

 

John drew back with some reluctance as a different thought pushed its way to the front.

 

“How did you know? I missed some of that. How did you do it?”

 

Sherlock smiled. He recognized that John, while he may never entirely be without worry, was slowly coming to terms with what had happened.

 

“We were suspicious almost from the start. Little things. Mycroft did a search or rather his people did. He wouldn’t lower himself to do leg work,” he scoffed. “You were reported shot but there was no record of your operation or recovery in an army hospital in the area of Afghanistan you were serving. Other things. The timing of your arrival was almost perfect. You,” and Sherlock smiled a rare true smile, “were perfect. I have been looking for you all my life.” He kissed John again. “And I am a convenient way to get to Mycroft. Not many others can. He has been the target of the rebels for a while now. This was certainly a novel approach.”

 

“So what did you do?”

 

“I let Mycroft know my concerns, he let me know his. He was all set for getting rid of you.” Sherlock said this very matter of fact. John stilled. “Oh don’t worry. I wouldn’t have let anything happen. You were and you are much too interesting to get away from me. I convinced him that I would not be pleased and we could capture who was behind this bold plan. We came up with an alternative. I took a blood sample after I drugged your tea the night you had that particularly horrible nightmare. I had it analyzed. Your blood contained nanites. You had said you hadn’t had them for your surgery so where did they come from. All the pieces were falling into place. And then Moriarty showed his hand. A name I had been hearing since the cabbie. It seemed like another lovely game and there is no such thing as coincidence.”

 

John winced and tried not to look upset.

 

“I didn’t mean you, John. I never thought of you that way. But he did.”

 

They were quiet for a moment.

 

“And then? How was I able to switch Moran off at ‘The Pool’ and shoot Moriarty? I was struggling to break through but I couldn’t and then you said…you said those words…”

 

“Vatican cameos?”

 

“Yes, that, and it was all clear and I was me again. How did you do that?”

 

Sherlock lowered his eyes and frowned. “We had a sample of the nanites used on you. Mycroft and I were able to create new ones, designed specifically to destroy Moran and leave you whole. I programmed them to respond to the trigger or at least for your mind to respond. It was a bit of a guess as to whether it would work and there was a good chance it wouldn’t.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “It was the best I could give you. It might not have worked at all.”  
  
John looked thoughtful. “Maybe it was a combination of that and Wilson’s message. I was already fighting. Maybe it helped.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not certain it’s an experiment that can be repeated. Nor should it.” He looked into the distance again and became very quiet once more.

 

Sherlock continued to hold his hand and stroke the back of it with his thumb. He was troubled by how close he came to losing everything he had within his grasp. He was aware he still could.

 

“John?”

 

“Mmmm, what?”

 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked with the air of someone less than sure of himself.

 

“I don’t know Sherlock. There are things I still have to work on. This is all very odd and unsettling. It does answer a number of questions and it makes sense for how I felt sometimes.” He paused. “I guess we’ll have to play it by ear. You are going to have to be patient whist I figure some of this out.”

 

“I understand. I will wait for however long it takes.” He stood, walked around the table and knelt between the doctor’s legs, his hands on John’s thighs, lightly stroking up and down in comfort. He wasn’t sure whom the comfort was for. John stared at his detective. He lifted his hand and ran it through the riot of curls on Sherlock’s head as the younger man leaned his head on John’s thighs. He wrapped his arms around John’s legs and hugged. John continued to run his hand through the soft hair. Sherlock could so easily have left him or handed him over to his brother for experimenting or worse.

 

“Come here,” he said and matching actions with his words, he lifted the detective’s face up reverently. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock shirt and pulled him into a rough kiss, a demanding and desperate one. They broke apart and John smiled at Sherlock, his heart full of an ache that would never entirely go away, an ache of love and an ache of what might have been. It was a bittersweet moment.

 

Sherlock kissed his way down John’s jaw and to his ear. “I haven’t got any cases and you know how bored I can get. Take me to the bedroom.” He pulled back a little and gave him those pleading eyes he used when he was trying to get away with something. Backing the look were the hands that slowly and sensuously made their way down John’s back and pulled his t-shirt up and over his head.

 

John chuckled. “You are a very wicked man.”

 

His detective lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “But you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

John answered with another kiss and stood and pulled a more than willing Sherlock to his feet. As they walked back toward the bedroom, he said, “What’s this about you drugging my tea? And taking blood samples? And shooting me full of nanites? I think you are going to have to do some serious making up here.”

 

Sherlock was hindered by the fact he was trying to remove both of their clothes at the same time. He let them fall to the floor as each piece came off.

 

“But I saved your life, Dr. Watson. I think you owe me. I have some very specific plans of what I want. Very specific.”

 

John stopped for a moment and looked very seriously at the other. “Sherlock…I, I think …I…”

 

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, deeply, teasingly, tangling their tongues together until John grew dizzy with want and need. “Me too, John. We will work this out.” He carefully and gently pushed him the rest of the way into the bedroom.

 

Sherlock took him to bed, where he slowly took John apart with caresses and maddening touches. He used his clever lips and wicked tongue until John was a writhing messy, crying out Sherlock’s name as he came. Licking and kissing his way up to John’s mouth he kissed him and held him, until the trembling stopped. He always would.

And then, with patience and reverence, Sherlock put him back together again, like he did before, healed him with love. John would always be his to put together and keep whole. There would be many times, later, over the years, when John would return the favour.

 

Two disparate fragments of the same soul, they’d met under less than ideal circumstances, but in spite of the odds, they were meant to be together, forever.

 

oOo

 

Hughes stood in the narrow alley, waiting for the contact to arrive. He didn’t have to wait long. He turned to the sound of high-heeled shoes tapping their way toward him.

 

A refined, polished voice spoke, “You have the item?”

 

“Yes. But I want to see the credits first.”

 

“Naturally. Here you are. I have included a new identity for you and an open electron-ticket to wherever you wish to go. Now hand over the information please.”

 

Hughes took the credits and the ticket and handed a microchip over containing all of the work he and Wilson had complied on John Watson and Sebastian Moran.

 

The other placed the chip into a hand held device, smaller than a ‘phone.

 

“This looks very promising. But be warned, you are to never set foot in England again and you are to stay out of this particular form of research. Have I made myself clear?”

 

“Yes.” Hughes scurried away grateful for the opportunity to start fresh, grateful for his life. He certainly did better than Wilson.

 

The other turned and walked down the alley, back to the waiting car. A man was sitting waiting. He held out his hand and took the chip from the woman. “Thank you, my dear.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Oh and Anthea? Keep tabs on my brother and his flatmate. If there are any changes to Dr. Watson’s ‘personality’ I wish to be informed right away.”

 

He paused a thoughtful expression on his face, “Shame,” he murmured.

 

“What is, sir?”

 

“Oh nothing, really. Just thinking. It’s just it’s a shame Sherlock won’t let me conduct any tests on Dr. Watson. It would be useful to see how well the memories hold. Good data for our own pet project and agents. Oh well. We shall have to muddle through on our own. Drive on, please,” he called to the automated vehicle.

 

The car pulled away from the kerb and disappeared into the late night traffic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the lyrics of the song The Cave by Mumford and Sons.


End file.
